


Sacrifice

by foundCarcosa



Category: Fable (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Hero's dalliances with the devious, hooded Shadow-worshipper who attends the Wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrifice

“So you’ve never been married…?” Alastair almost sounds amused, and Drustan cuts a sharp look in his direction. He can’t see the Disciple’s eyes, obscured as they were by both the murky ambiance and the hood he wore, but there was a plain-as-day smirk on his lips.

“No. What’s it to you?”

“Rein it in, lad. I meant no offence.” His voice doesn’t ring out sharply the way Drustan’s does, ricocheting off the Temple’s stony walls. His voice is molasses — or perhaps blood — oozing towards the stained floor. A dangerous voice, a frightening voice, and yet Drustan — lusty, thirsty shadow-child — still drinks his fill of it as if he were parched.

I ask because you are such a _zealous_ little fledgling,” Alastair continues, and Drustan jumps, imagining fingers caressing the base of his spine. There are no fingers there — just that voice. “I wonder at how you will fulfil your duties to us. Unless you are a quick charmer…”

The gentle caress of imagined fingers turns into a needle of apprehension, shooting up Drustan’s spine like a Will charge. “Wh- what are you… duties? What do you—”

“Shhh. Later.”  
Alastair melts into the shadows that define the Temple, and draws Drustan in after him. His hands — real this time, not imagined — snake into Drustan’s robes, and are cold against his chest. Drustan presses closer to Alastair’s form in the dark, if only to share his warmth.  
“All will be explained…”

—-

Had Drustan been another lad, and had this been another life, she would have been ideal. Gemstone eyes wink at him from under long russet bangs, a tumble of curls framing a round, plain face. She was still thin, but she would fill out later in life, softened by married life and rounded by the bearing of children.

But the grave would see her still thin and sprightly, even as the rosy cast faded from her cheeks.

Drustan courts her with a stone in his belly, the lightness of his words doing nothing to cover how heavy they feel on his tongue. She is quick to be wed, which is why he chose someone of her age.  
And, oh, she loves Heroes.

“You won’t leave me alone for _too_ long while you go off adventurin’, will y', love?” she winks, and Drustan assures her that no, he won’t. Bile boils hotly in his gut, and he forces himself to think of Alastair’s cool hands and lulling words. Cool hands, yes, with the touch of the grave.

They are wed on a cloudless day; flowers rain upon them as the vows are consummated. Drustan thinks he sees Theresa in the crowd, and his head grows hot and light. He looks again, frightfully; she is gone.

He is almost tempted to take the death-sleep draught himself.  
As the moon peeks over the horizon, he slips it into her nightcap instead. She sighs contentedly as her eyes flutter shut, her last breath.

“Are you sure she is not dead already?” Alastair asks sceptically, leaning against the wall beside the Wheel with his arms folded. Drustan doesn’t answer, setting her down as carefully as he can in the centre of the circle. He doesn’t trust his voice

“It’s early, anyway,” the Disciple continues, pushing his hood back with a sigh. The robes are heavy and hot, and the air in the Temple is close. A shock of ash-blond hair is revealed, cut into a messy faux-hawk above sharp blue eyes.  
It strikes Drustan as odd that he has never seen Alastair’s entire visage before now.  
Alastair tilts his head towards the hall that leads to the sleeping chambers; his expression is one of nonchalance and the amoral apathy that is expected of extreme evil-doers.

As soon as they’re out of the main chamber, Alastair grunts as he’s shoved against the wall. He chuckles, eyes glinting. “Has it really been that long—”

“Shut up,” Drustan growls, but this only deepens Alastair’s desirous chuckle. “Why are you doing this to me? I... I am _not_ evil.”

“Aren’t you?” Alastair grips Drustan’s robes and pulls him tight to him, his breath feathering over Drustan’s chin as he speaks. Drustan’s stance is staggered as the Disciple’s thigh pushes in between both of his. “ _You_ pressed for entry. _You_ impressed Grim. _You_ showed your stunning lack of compassion for human life. And now you blame _me_ …? How flattering, love, but how _stupid.”_

Drustan’s head swims, emotion and fury and — _oh, yes_ — lust churning like a stirred potion. He groans, unwillingly.  
“I’ve charmed many a lad, many a lady, and many have spurned me.” Drustan can barely hear Alastair’s voice, snake-venom wrapped in silk, as he grinds against the Disciple’s whip-thin body. “I’ve been outside of these walls, walked under cover of night, and all that was good shrank away, or attempted to destroy me.

But _you,_ you came crawling like a worm, believing yourself to be charming _me,_ thinking yourself completely in control. I appealed to that which was already within you, and you blame me for awakening it.

Foolish child. But oh, how sumptuous the feast that is a fool’s soul…”

The clock struck, and so did the wheel. Drustan’s first spouse painted the circle with her blood, and Shadow-worshippers murmured praises as he joined their ranks.

And Alastair smiled his snake-venom smile, and beckoned his snake-charmer’s beckon, and Drustan’s body and blood heeded the call.


End file.
